


An Exercise in Patience

by Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Banter, Blow Jobs, Coldflash Bingo 2019, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Nightmares, Seduction, Sharing a Bed, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-27 05:56:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20402791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/pseuds/Sandrine%20Shaw
Summary: "I need a lift. Down at the Keystone docks. Ran into some car trouble."Barry wonders if this is a prank call. Maybe Snart's drunk. He doesn't sound drunk, he doesn't even sound tired, if anything his voice is strained and low-key annoyed, but who knows? Maybe that's how Captain Cold gets after a few glasses of whiskey.(Of late night phone calls, non-standard first aid, and the value of patience.)





	An Exercise in Patience

**Author's Note:**

> [This GIF of Snart in "Revenge of the Rogues"](https://66.media.tumblr.com/22ff7241539726a6de71650ab3b6e453/75f29912f207ffdc-a1/s250x400/dff690db33a288c198664998c45e8bed8fa28d19.gif) (by the lovely [amunetblack](https://amunetblack.tumblr.com/post/181352937627/leonard-snart-rewatch-the-flash-110-revenge), who makes the best Arrowverse GIFs) popped up on my Tumblr dash two weeks ago and I couldn't get it out of my head. What if Snart, for a change, was the one claiming car trouble? Hence, this story was born.
> 
> It's also a fill for the 'sharing a bed' square in my Coldflash Bingo card!
> 
> Thanks to glitterburn for the Speedster-fast beta! :D

The Reverse Flash is standing over Barry's mom, knife raised and ready to strike, and even though Barry is right there with them, he knows won't get there in time to save her. He's just not fast enough – he's never fast enough, not when it matters. The overwhelming sense of helplessness seeps into his bone marrow and robs him of his speed, rooting him to the spot as he watches Thawne move towards his mom, like everything's happening in slow motion. He can't breathe, his throat tight and aching, his ears ringing.

The ringing gets louder, more insistent. And that— that's not in his head. It's— 

Barry's eyes snap open and he sits up, gasping for air. He's in the bedroom of his apartment, alone in the dark, the images from the nightmare gone but lingering on his mind. It's the same nightmare he's had for years. It keeps evolving. Now that he's got his powers and knows what – who – the man in yellow really is and what he came for, the dream's not quite the same as it used to be when he was 11 years old and couldn't make sense of what he'd witnessed. But it doesn't go away. Even after he got new enemies, the staple of nightmare fodder continuously expanding, he can't shake off the first one.

He blindly reaches for his phone on the nightstand and flicks it on without bothering to check the screen, prepared for Joe's or Cisco's voice on the other end telling him the Flash's needed on scene somewhere in Central.

"Yeah, I'm awake."

There's a weird noise on the other end of the line he can't quite identify, followed by a silence that lasts just a little too long. Something about it makes his instincts tingle. Cisco should already be talking his ear off in rapid-fire babble, and Joe would give him a clipped, concise report of whatever meta attack caused the emergency.

Barry pulls the phone away from his ear and looks at the screen.

_unknown number_

"Good to know," a voice says from the speakers. A familiar voice, even though it takes Barry too many seconds to place it. "Tell me, Barry, you often answer the phone when you're _not_ awake?"

"Snart? What the— Do you have any idea how late it is?"

It's meant to be a rhetorical question, but it figures that Snart has no intention of treating it as such because clearly his ability to be a smart-ass doesn't diminish in the wee hours of morning. "It's 3:07. I need a lift. Down at the Keystone docks. Ran into some car trouble."

Barry wonders if this is a prank call. Maybe Snart's drunk. He doesn't sound drunk, he doesn't even sound tired, if anything his voice is strained and low-key annoyed, but who knows? Maybe that's how Captain Cold gets after a few glasses of whiskey.

"So call AAA. Or get an Uber."

"No can do. Besides, you owe me."

"I— " Barry splutters. Yeah, Snart is definitely drunk. Or delusional. "I really, really don't."

"Mardon and Trickster? Christmas? Ring any bells?"

"You mean when you broke into Joe's house, threatened Iris, told me something I already knew and then refused to help me fight your jail-break buddies? All of which you did in the interests of getting even for when we helped out your sister, if I remember correctly. If anything, Snart, you still owe me."

Snart huffs. "Nice try, but no. But I'll play nice. Make you a deal: you run over here and get me home, we're even." 

Barry is tempted to argue further, but Snart's willingness to give in, in exchange for nothing but a simple lift from the docks into town stops him. It's odd. If Snart really believed that Barry owes him, for whatever inane reason, he'd trade it in for a much bigger favor. Unless he has another agenda and Barry coming to Keystone is somehow more important to him than he's letting on. 

It could be a trap. Maybe Cold is waiting for him at the docks with half a dozen of his Rogues, ready to take out the Flash. Barry should probably call Cisco for back-up, or maybe let Keystone PD know there's something going down. At best, he should probably tell Snart to fuck off, cut the call and go back to sleep. 

But he's already awake enough and not all that keen on returning to his nightmares, and if going against Snart is how he'll spend the rest of the night, that'll still be more fun than having to watch Thawne kill his mom for the millionth time in his dreams.

"Okay, fine. Just stay where you are." He swings his legs out of bed and stretches. "But, Snart, if this is some kind of ambush, I won't care about our deal. You'll get your ass thrown back in jail before sunrise."

"Whatever, Barry. Just get here. In a _flash_, if you will."

Something about the pun is off. Usually at this point he'd hear the glee in Snart's voice that goes with that taunting grin of his. This time, though, it's buried underneath a sharp urgency, like Snart isn't just making the flash joke for the hell of it but actually means for Barry to hurry.

Barry's stomach churns uncomfortably, and he skips the sarcastic quip he'd normally throw at Snart for a pun that unoriginal. When he reaches for the Speed Force, he has the presence of mind to quickly stop by S.T.A.R. Labs on his way to Keystone to get his suit, just in case, but that's all the delay he's willing to risk.

#

"Where are you?" he asks into the phone, as soon as he comes to a stop at the harbor.

The docks lie deserted, no clandestine movement of more or less legal goods from the shipping containers, no shadows shifting under the dim sodium lights illuminating the area. If this is an ambush, it's stealthier than the Rogues' usual M.O..

Snart's nowhere to be seen either, not on the first quick pass Barry does to check out the surroundings. He hasn't put down the phone, though, offering vague directions from the other end of the line. 

"Big red container, outside the warehouse," he says, and Barry frowns.

"For real? Could you be any less precise? There are at least a dozen warehouses," he complains. But the truth is, it barely takes him long enough to finish speaking before he finishes a cursory run alongside the buildings. 

And there's the red container, half-hidden by a crane. 

Barry doesn't catch a glimpse of Snart anywhere, though. 

"Are you sure this is—" He rounds the corner and stops short at the sight of a figure sitting on the ground, back against the container's metal wall, obscured by shadows. It isn't until he steps closer that he makes out the Cold Gun pointed at him and Snart's face tilted up towards him.

"Finally. Took your time."

"You called me less than five minutes ago." And they spent the majority of that time bickering on the phone. Actually getting here took maybe ninety seconds, even with the extra trip to the labs. He motions towards the gun. "Look, can we skip the shoot-out tonight? It's cold enough as it is."

To his surprise, Snart lowers his weapon right away, not even making a big deal out of it.

"It's fried anyway," he says. He drops the gun unceremoniously to the ground next to him. 

That's when Barry notices the puddle of liquid on the asphalt around Snart, too dark to be rain water. He's right in front of Snart within a fraction of a second, taking in the way the man is slumped against the container, his parka stripped off and bunched behind his right shoulder like a cushion, blue fabric stained with blood. 

Fuck. That's not the kind of situation he expected to find here tonight when Snart called him.

Barry's heart skips a beat, and he pulls back the cowl that suddenly feels too restrictive, like he can't breathe. His chest tight with anxiety, he kneels down and quickly scans Snart for injuries. His hands move across Snart's body at lightning speed, prompting a glare that's almost as chilly as the Cold Gun. 

"Do you _mind_?"

Yeah, no, that attitude won't fly right now. "You said you _ran into car trouble_. Unless you're about to tell me that a car shot you, I'm calling bullshit on that."

Snart lifts his left shoulder in a shrug that somehow makes him look nonchalant and unperturbed despite his obvious predicament. "Got into a little tiff with a new meta who thinks they can infringe on my territory. Hardly seemed worth explaining on the phone. Doesn't matter, anyway. I don't want you or your little friends involved. This is my business, and I'll deal with it."

Barry could just about imagine what Snart's idea of _dealing_ with this kind of problem looked like. "Then why call me at all, if you don't want my help with the meta?"

"Like I said, I need a lift home." He looks away. Even under the dim gleam of the lights, Barry can see his jaw working. "Don't let it go to your head. You were the quickest option. Would have taken too long for Mick or Lisa to get here."

Meaning, Snart would probably have been unconscious by the time they got here. 

Barry sits back, clenching his fingers to stop himself from reaching out again. 

It's obvious how much Snart hates admitting any kind of weakness, even after having called Barry for help. Just the fact that he had to make that phone call must be smarting, and if things were different, Barry would maybe enjoy rubbing it in a little, watching Snart squirm and admit that he needed the Flash's assistance. But even though the bullet doesn't appear to have damaged anything vital, it's obvious that Snart has lost too much blood. It might not be immediately life-threatening, but it's more serious than Snart is trying to let on.

Barry hates it. 

There's something wrong about seeing Snart like this, sitting in a pool of his own blood, cradling his right arm, Cold Gun lying discarded on the asphalt. It makes Barry feel more wrong-footed than it probably should, considering that he and Cold are usually on different sides and he's had that gun pointed at him too many times. He tries to tell himself he just doesn't like seeing people hurt, no matter who it is – but that visceral rush of sympathy and concern he feels, that's all about Snart. 

He stands and holds out a hand. "Can you get up?"

The flat stare Snart aims at him makes Barry smile a little despite himself. "I got a bullet in my shoulder, Scarlet. My legs are working fine."

Barry graciously pretends he doesn't notice Snart's wince when he heaves himself up while ignoring Barry's proffered hand, just like he ignores the way his own stomach twists with worry.

#

Snart sways a little when Barry sets him down, dangerously unsteady on his feet in a way that clearly goes beyond the vertigo from being carried at super speed. Barry keeps his hands on him for a moment longer than he usually does when he runs with someone, until Snart shrugs off his hold and steps away.

He looks around the bathroom and frowns. 

"Thought I told you to get me home." He doesn't sound happy.

Barry shrugs and awkwardly rubs the back of his neck. "Um, you didn't clarify whose home?"

The glare leveled in his direction would be chilling if Snart didn't look two minutes away from collapsing. He opens his mouth, no doubt about to protest and demand being flashed to his nearest safe house or tell Barry thanks for nothing and he'll make his own way home, but Barry cuts him off before he can even start. 

"Look, Snart, I can drop you off at a hospital if you prefer that, or I can wake up Caitlin and tell her you need patching up at S.T.A.R. Labs, but there's no way I'm leaving you to deal with a gunshot wound by yourself. Sorry, but if you wanted someone who doesn't care if you bleed out, you really should have called an Uber."

Snart narrows his eyes, but Barry refuses to budge, crossing his arms and pointedly holding Snart's gaze in what he assumes is universally understood as a 'I'm not backing down' expression. What's Snart gonna do anyway? Glare him to death? Without the Cold Gun, he's got nothing to counter Barry's meta powers.

But if he thinks Snart is going to be more agreeable just because he's not armed, Barry's clearly mistaken. Snart closes the distance between them until they're almost nose to nose, and Barry would be tempted to move away if he wasn't too tired and too stubborn and too used to the other man's bullshit. 

Snart cocks his head and puts on a cordial smile that's 100% fake and intended to look it. "Tell me, Barry, do you _care_ this much about all of your enemies?"

If Barry had to guess, he'd assume that Snart hopes that he'll get flustered and embarrassed by the unsubtle dig, as if _caring_ was some sort of character flaw. Or, in fact, as if _enemies_ was an adequate term for whatever he and Snart are. Which is ridiculous, considering how they ended up in this situation to begin with. 

"I dunno, Snart, do you call all of your enemies at three in the morning after you got shot and need help?" Barry retaliates, pointedly staring Snart down.

Eventually, even Captain Cold knows when he's lost a battle. He inclines his head. "Touché." The minuscule twitch of his mouth turns the parody of a smile into something warmer and more honest, and the tension hanging in the air slowly dissipates. 

"Let me have a look at your shoulder," Barry suggests. 

He's prepared for another round of arguing, but for once Snart doesn't seem to have any objections. It's so uncharacteristic, a Leonard Snart who's not being deliberately contrary, makes Barry worry that the injury might be worse than he thought.

Snart winces again when he reaches back to pull at his shirt, and Barry can barely stop himself from offering a hand. He holds his tongue and quietly watches as Snart removes the bloodied garment quickly and efficiently despite the pain he must be in, revealing a pattern of old scars on his torso. 

The pointed way he holds Barry's gaze feels like challenge, daring him to flinch. 

If it's some kind of test, apparently Barry passes, because after a couple of seconds, Snart turns his back to him, letting him see the entry wound on his right shoulder. It's just a small hole, barely the size of a fingertip, bleeding sluggishly, the skin around it coated red. Barry reaches out but pulls back before his fingertips meet the tense lines of Snart's back, unsure if he's been given an invitation to touch or if Snart's gonna try to throw a punch if Barry puts his hands on him.

"The bullet's still in there," he says, mostly just to speak over the silence.

"You don't say." Snart's tone drips with sarcasm, and Barry doesn't even need to see his face to know that he's rolling his eyes. "Glad to see that all your work towards your forensics degree didn't go to waste." 

"Ha ha, very funny. Let's see if you're still making jokes when I'm digging that bullet out of your shoulder," Barry quips back, only half kidding. 

Looking at the wound in front of him and finally tentatively reaching out to touch, Snart stiff like a statue under his hands, Barry kind of wishes that he had called Caitlin after all. He's removed a lot of bullets in his day job, but those are usually in walls and floors and furniture, not buried under the skin of a living, breathing person to whom Barry doesn't want to cause any further pain.

He reaches for the tweezers in one of the drawers and contemplates the best way to get at the bullet without doing more damage than good.

"You better have some alcohol here to help with that," Snart warns.

Barry pauses, mentally taking stock of his apartment. Shit. "Well, I have iodine?"

"To drink, Barry. Not for disinfection." When Barry doesn't respond, Snart noisily draws in air. "Wonderful."

"Sorry. Alcohol doesn't work on me. I think I've still got a bottle of red wine in the fridge from when Iris was over a few weeks ago." 

He supposes he could quickly run out to get some whiskey from Joe's house, but even though it wouldn't take more than a few minutes, he doesn't trust Snart not to sneak away while Barry's gone. And if he woke up Joe, he'd face some really uncomfortable questions. Besides, he's reasonably sure they don't need the alcohol, not if he does this right. He lets his fingertips trace the edges of the wound, gently testing it, pleased when Snart doesn't flinch or otherwise react, too busy snarking at Barry to even notice his ministrations.

"Great," he scoffs. "A month-old red wine, served at 35 degrees. What a culinary delight. Remind me to never come over for dinner."

Barry stills, momentarily taken aback. "I wasn't aware that this was something you were planning to do. But if you want to, you're welcome to bring a bottle and we'll decant it properly so your inner wine snob will be satisfied."

Then, while Snart is likely still contemplating a good comeback, he reaches for the Speed Force and strikes.

"Ow!" Snart flinches and snaps around. "Careful! What the hell are you —"

He stops in his tracks when Barry triumphantly holds up the tweezers with the bullet. The impressed look on Snart's face before he schools his features back into a neutral expression is deeply satisfying.

Barry grins and tries, somewhat unsuccessfully, not to feel too smug. "Sometimes being really fast is pretty helpful."

Snart hums in what Barry chooses to interpret as agreement or, possibly, even appreciation. "Probably not when you get yourself hurt, though," he speculates. "Must be like feeling everything in slow motion."

That's... astonishingly accurate, actually. Especially considering how long it took for Barry's friends to understand this. 

"Yeah. Doesn't help that pain killers have zero effect on me." He can't quite resist adding, "And FYI, frostbite is no fun either."

"Cute." Snart gives him a withering look. "Don't try to guilt-trip me, Barry. We both know I haven't shot the Cold Gun at you at its highest setting for a while."

It's something Barry has suspected from how much less painful getting hit with a blast from the Cold Gun is now compared to how excruciating it used to be, but it's nice to have confirmation. Nice, but surprising. It's not something he would have expected Snart to admit quite that easily. He wonders if tonight's events have rattled Snart more than he's letting on.

Barry isn't above taking advantage of that temporary weakness, though. He subtly directs Snart to turn around so he can quickly clean the wound and patch it up, waiting until some of the tension eases out of the muscles before he makes his play. 

"Look, it's late. I know you want to get back out there and take revenge on whoever it was that fried your gun and shot you. But realistically, you have a better chance to succeed if you at least get some rest and wait until the bleeding has stopped before you start some kind of mob war with a dangerous meta." 

Under his hands, Snart's back tenses up again, and Barry lets his fingers spread out, trying to make the touch soothing, as if he was dealing with a wounded, dangerous animal about to jump and sink its teeth into his throat. The old scar tissue feels rough under his palm, and the skin is almost searing hot to the touch, like Snart's running a slight fever, ramping up Barry's concern even further.

"Stay here," he reasons quietly. "At least until it's morning. Maybe I can even convince Cisco to loan you a replacement Cold Gun tomorrow." 

That's a big maybe. Cisco is not going to like the idea and might not be susceptible to Barry trying to plead with him, but it's worth a shot.

Snart's posture remains rigid, and Barry can _feel_ his jaw working in the way the muscles of his neck quiver. He doesn't dislodge Barry's touch, though, nor does he twist around fully. He turns his head just enough for Barry to see his face in profile, eyes hooded, mouth a tense line. "You never stop pushing, do you?"

It's hard to read his tone.

Barry shrugs. "I thought we already established that I care. I'm not gonna apologize for it, and it's unlikely that I'll stop, so you better get used to it."

He tries not to make it a challenge that Snart will feel obliged to respond to by trying to prove Barry wrong, keeping his tone non-combative and matter of fact: The sky is blue. Ice is cold. Barry cares. Irrevocable laws of nature. No point trying to fight them.

Seconds tick by that feel like hours for Barry. He would blame his powers, but truth is, he's never been good at waiting, especially when he's second-guessing himself, unsure that Snart won't turn around, push him out of the way and leave.

"Fine. I'll stay," Snart finally bites out, like the words physically pain him. Agreement, albeit reluctant. Barry will take it.

He withdraws his hand, suddenly feeling flustered. "Great. That's good. You can have the bedroom. I'll take the couch."

"Scared that I'll bite, Barry? Thought the purpose of this exercise was to keep an eye on me so you can play nurse. Hard to do that from two rooms over." 

Of course, Snart chooses that moment to face Barry again, turning around with a smug smile curling his lips, taking obvious delight at putting Barry on the spot.

And Barry doesn't even have a good comeback.

"I can— I mean, that's—" 

His brain short-circuits at the idea of sharing a bed. It's not even because he's attracted to Snart – he is, but that's beside the point; he just can't compute the idea of Snart allowing himself to fall asleep next to Barry, which implies a level of trust from the other man Barry can't wrap his head around. 

It's probably some elaborate joke, another attempt to get Barry embarrassed and make him back off.

Oblivious to Barry's inner turmoil, Snart scoffs at him. "Your bed's big enough for two, Scarlet."

He sounds serious enough, and okay, maybe it's not a joke after all.

Wait— "How do you even know how big my bed is? I flashed you straight in here!"

Snart laughs. "It's cute that you think I've never broken into this place before."

#

That's how Barry ends up lying next to Snart, the distance between them less than four feet, and Barry acutely aware of every single inch.

He stares at the ceiling and tries to will his body back to sleep, but the tiredness he felt barely an hour ago when Snart's phone call woke him up has long gone, too much leftover energy coursing through his veins and too much tension hanging in the air, like a rising lightning storm.

He's no stranger to having trouble falling asleep – but usually it's because he's fixating on something, like trying to come up with a plan to defeat their latest adversary, or thinking about a case, or worrying about what that newspaper from the future has shown him. Tonight, though, Barry can hardly quieten his mind enough to focus on a single clear thought. He gets distracted by everything: the sound of the cars passing by underneath the bedroom window, flickers of light chasing along the ceiling, the dull ache in his ribcage from the Flash's latest outing, the solid presence of Leonard Snart just a little more than an arm's length away.

Shifting his shoulders, he tries to subtly rearrange the pillow, hoping to find a more comfortable position. The sheets rustle softly, like a whisper.

"Can't sleep?" 

Snart's voice cuts through the silence like a whiplash, startling Barry. He flinches, his racing heart pounding all the way up to his throat. 

"Jesus, Snart!" He rubs his face and brushes his hair from his forehead, his skin so hot that he's glad for the darkness covering the embarrassing flush he must be sporting. "Yeah, well, it's kinda hard to sleep when you talk to me."

"Please! Like you haven't been wide awake the whole time. I could hear the little wheels in your head turning from over here. Loud enough to keep me awake, FYI."

Barry winces. He turns onto his side towards Snart, not at all surprised to find the other man's eyes open and alert, watching him. He hadn't thought he was being that obvious. Then again, it seems appropriate that Snart is the type to stay attuned to his surroundings at all times, considering his profession and his history. 

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. Look, I'll just take the couch. I'm not a quiet sleeper anyway, so even if I fall asleep at some point, I'll probably end up tossing and turning, and you won't get any rest." 

If Barry's restlessness is disturbing Snart's sleep, that pretty much defeats the purpose of making him stay here in the first place. 

Barry makes a move to get up, but he's not fast enough – and yeah, he's perfectly aware of how ironic that is, and how damn symptomatic for how things always go down between him and Snart. Somehow the Flash never seems to be quite fast enough to defeat Captain Cold, and before Barry can do as much as sit up, he finds himself pushed back onto the mattress.

"Kind of you to offer, but not what I was going for." 

Snart's breath is warm against Barry's face, and Barry's heartbeat picks up again. Just a perfectly normal fight-or-flight response to being held down by someone with a history of pointing a lethal weapon at him. Except that the curl of heat, low in Barry's gut, isn't fear. He isn't scared, not in the way he should be, with Snart's weight on top of him and his hands locked around Barry's wrists, holding him down. 

He swallows, trying to latch onto anything else but the way his body reacts to being trapped underneath Snart like this. Like how Snart is leaning too heavily on his arms, risking upsetting the fresh wound. "Wait, your shoulder —"

With their faces only inches apart, the tiny twitch of Snart's lips is easy to spot even in the dark. 

"Don't worry, Scarlet. I'll be careful," he drawls.

"Careful with what?" 

The words slip past Barry's lips before his brain catches up with his mouth. It's probably a really dumb question but he can't — 

"With this," Snart says, and then he kisses Barry.

All at once, the turmoil in Barry's head falls silent. His lips open under the insistent coaxing of Snart's mouth against his, and an eager, hungry sound gets stuck in his throat. His hands, held immobile against the mattress, emptily clench around nothing. He wants to reach out and pull Snart down towards him, wants to touch and feel, wants everything, too much at once.

It's hardly a new desire. He's wanted this since Snart stepped right into his space at _Saints and Sinners_ and looked him up and down with that appraising look that made the heat pool in Barry's stomach and the lightning flash through his veins like it was drawn towards Snart. He hasn't stopped wanting it, not on that cold airfield at Ferris Air, nor when he was zigzagging around trying to evade the Cold Gun. Still, the sudden intensity with which he finds himself responding to Snart's kiss is unexpected. It scares him a little, realizing just how deep he's in.

Barry pulls back, nervously licking his lips, trying to find a good way how to phrase this. Somehow, it seems important that he gets it right. "I didn't— That's not why I asked you to stay."

He's almost a little insulted when Snart laughs, like Barry said something genuinely funny. 

"Pretty sure I got that when you offered to sleep on the couch. Twice. Could give a guy a complex, make him think you're not interested."

The denial dies on Barry's lips when Snart shifts his weight onto his good shoulder and reaches between their bodies with his other hand, cupping Barry's hard-on through his boxers. "Good thing I got some _solid_ proof that you are."

Barry makes an embarrassing choked sound. "Oh my God, stop!" Above him, Snart stills; his forehead furrows and he looks ready to roll off before Barry quickly clarifies, "The puns, I mean. Not the... you know, the rest. You definitely shouldn't stop that."

"Good to know," Snart says, drawl firmly in place, sounding cool and aloof. 

But it's too late; Barry caught that brief moment of uncertainty and the relief that followed. This isn't just some ploy to seduce the Flash out of boredom or to make a point; Snart _wants_ this, wants _him_, and the idea alone – almost impossible to believe, even when he knows it to be true – makes Barry feel giddy and light-headed.

He surges up into another kiss, deep and lingering, groaning against Snart's mouth when the hand on his cock start moving, the soft fabric rubbing deliciously against the sensitive underside, just this side of too rough, the warmth of Snart's touch heating up the cotton.

And then, without any warning, the hand is gone, and Barry almost whines in protest. His hips jerk up, searching for friction they can't find.

"Hmm. Someone's impatient," Snart chides, amused.

"More like, someone's being a tease." Barry tries to make himself sound at least a little put out. But the truth is, he enjoys the back-and-forth between them too much and it's hard to keep the grin off his face.

Snart's eyes gleam with a hunger that hits Barry like a blast from the Cold Gun. "It's only a tease if I don't plan on following through. And trust me, Barry, I _will_ follow through."

Barry jumps a little when Snart's hand settles on his abdomen, just above the waistband of his boxers, thumb tantalizingly following the line where fabric meets skin. Snart keeps holding his gaze, the intensity almost unbearable, and yet Barry can't look away. He sucks in his lower lip and holds it with his teeth to keep himself from begging. It feels like a test, like Snart making him prove just how patient he can be, and Barry's determined not to slip up, not even when the butterfly-light scrape of Snart's fingers, so close to where he wants them, drives him crazy.

"Good boy," Snart says, the familiar Captain Cold voice in full effect, dragging slow and self-satisfied. Barry viscerally reacts to it, a shiver running up his spine that has nothing to do with the cold. "See, Barry, it's not all about _speed_. Some things are worth waiting for."

Finally, his hand dips lower, pushing underneath the waistband, and even though Barry expected it, the sensation of Snart's hand closing around his cock, skin to naked skin, is as shocking as it is overwhelming. 

Snart's grip is firm and sure, and the calluses feel just the right kind of rough. And then he starts stroking Barry, and— _fuck_, that's something else entirely. He's had more than one inappropriate fantasy about those slim, clever fingers, but whatever dirty daydreams his imagination conjured up, they were nothing compared to how it actually feels to have Snart's hands on him. 

There's a part of him that wants to reach for Snart and explore every inch of that scarred, exposed torso, letting his hands linger where his touch was clinical and efficient before, but he doubts Snart would appreciate it. Barry's used to being bold and taking risks, but the idea that Snart could pull away scares him into stillness. 

This is Snart's show now, and if that means Barry has to lie back and enjoy it, that's what he's going to do.

He closes his eyes and arches into the touch, incoherent little sounds tumbling from his lips as Snart jerks him off. It's just a damn handjob, it shouldn't be so good, shouldn't make him feel so utterly steamrollered with arousal and emotion. 

When Snart picks up the pace, Barry can't hold back anymore. The Speed Force takes over and his body starts to vibrate so hard it feels like he's coming apart at the seams. If Snart's taken aback at all, he doesn't let on. His touch never hesitates, his rhythm remains steady and frantic and unfaltering. 

"Please, Snart— Leonard. I can't—" Barry babbles, not even sure what he's saying.

Above him, Snart's face is strained, but his tone remains complacent and lofty. "Sure you can, Scarlet. Come on, stop fighting it." 

It's that low, drawled command as much as Snart's hand on Barry's cock that finally drives him over the edge. He comes with a groan, squeezing his eyes shut and clutching at the bedsheets. His heart beats a storm, so loud that Barry's sure Snart must be able to hear the frantic drumming. 

When Barry looks up again, Snart is still watching him. 

For a moment, before Snart locks up his emotions behind the usual mask again, his face is full of awe, like he can't believe that Barry is real. Barry's heart clenches in response. Before he can talk himself out of it, he reaches for his speed and flips them around, taking care not to mess up Snart's wounded shoulder. 

It takes Snart a few seconds to find his bearing and gather his wits enough to give Barry that familiar unimpressed look. "Bit of a warning next time, Barry."

Barry steals a quick, apologetic kiss from Snart's scowling lips before moving down his body. 

Snart doesn't protest when Barry pulls down his briefs. Even if his irritation over getting manhandled was real, it clearly did nothing to curtail his arousal, his cock hard and glistening with pre-cum. Barry can't wait to get his mouth on it. He gives it a few experimental strokes with his hand, enjoying the heaviness of it and the way it curves against his fingers. He risks a coy look up to Snart, eyebrow raised in question.

Snart tilts his head and narrows his eyes at Barry. "What? _Now_ you're asking for permission? Or are you just testing my patience?" 

He sounds way too controlled considering the state he's in, and Barry vows to change that.

"Turnabout's fair play," he says with a grin, palming Snart's cock a couple more times before leaning over and swallowing it down. 

It's a struggle to take it all at once, his eyes watering as he chokes, but he's nothing if not determined and dammit, he wants this, wants to taste Snart, wants his cock, wants to make the other man finally lose that aggravating, unflappable control of his.

He relaxes his throat and starts vibrating his vocal cords, and right in this moment, Barry can't think of anything that could be as rewarding as the way Snart's body goes rigid under his, Snart's hips jerking up and a string of profanities spilling from his lips, raspy and uncharacteristically impassioned.

"Fuck, Barry," Snart bites out, and damn, Barry loves the way he makes the name sound. He gets weak-kneed when Snart says it in that clipped, hard Captain Cold voice – though he'd deny it if anyone ever suggested such a thing – but it's even better when Snart turns it into a breathless, almost reverent curse like this.

Barry hums in pleasure, and with another muttered expletive, Snart's hand settles on his head, fingers tangling in his hair, his grip just the right kind of painful. Just like that, Barry's hard again, one of the perks of a speedster metabolism. He closes his eyes and bobs his head up and down, his groin lazily rubbing against Snart's thigh.

Neither of them lasts long, but Barry takes pride in making Snart come first, spilling down Barry's throat with a bitten-off shout. Barry follows only seconds later. He collapses in a heap on top of Snart's body, his cheek resting against the hard planes of Snart's stomach as he catches his breath. 

Snart's hand is still in Barry's hair, but the punishing grip has loosened. Barry idly wonders if Snart knows that his fingertips keep softly scraping along Barry's scalp in a gentle caress. The urge to comment on the gesture is overshadowed by the desire to keep still and enjoy it, so that's what Barry does. He lets his eyes fall shut again and hides his smile against Snart's skin.

All too soon, the petting stops. 

"Care to use those convenient powers of yours to get us cleaned up?" Snart asks. 

Perhaps it's just Barry's imagination, but the drawl doesn't sound quite as frosty as usual.

Barry quickly speeds into the bathroom to get a washcloth and wipe away the evidence Snart and he left all over the sheets and each other. The wet spots on the bed will have to wait until tomorrow; there's not much he can do about them without changing the sheets, and he doesn't trust Snart to get back into bed if he ushers him out now. 

When he's done, barely five seconds after he got up, he flops down next to Snart with a grin. "Well, crime scene clean-up is a specialty of mine."

"Show-off." Snart rolls his eyes, but he doesn't resist as Barry pulls him into an unhurried, soft kiss. 

When Barry settles down next to him, curving his body along Snart's uninjured side, Snart looks like he wants to protest. He doesn't, though, not when Barry pulls the covers up, nor when he slips an arm around Snart's chest and pillows his head on his good shoulder. Barry's too tired to think about what that means, too wrung-out to worry about it, and he's out like a light as soon as he closes his eyes. 

For once, the nightmares stay away.

#

He wakes up to sunlight filtering through the blinds.

It takes him a moment until the events of last night come back to him – Snart's claim of _car trouble_, his bloodied skin under Barry's hands, exchanging heated kisses in the darkness of the bedroom and the ardent way he'd said Barry's name – just long enough to catch sight of Snart who's already halfway out of the door. 

His stomach plummets, even as he finds himself completely unsurprised by Snart's attempt at escaping before Barry was up.

"Are you sneaking out like a thief in the night?" he calls out. 

Snart freezes. 

He turns back around to face Barry, expression guarded. "It's morning. And I am in fact a thief, as you'd do well to remember. Stealthy retreats are my specialty."

"It's only—" Barry quickly checks his phone. "Six-thirty. Come back to bed. I'll make us pancakes later."

It's hardly his best pitch, but he's still half-asleep and not as quick-witted as he knows he needs to be to keep up with Snart. He feels soft and warm and cozy, and he wants to cling to that feeling just a little while longer before the real world gets to invade his little happy bubble again. 

The way Snart averts his gaze suggests that it's already too late for that.

"Barry. It's not gonna work." He sounds almost regretful.

It's almost worse than the cool-as-ice, nothing-can-touch-me attitude, because it means that Snart wants this too, but won't let himself – or Barry – have it because he's somehow got it in his head that they shouldn't be making a go of it. Barry doesn't want to have that talk now; he really, really doesn't want to hear Snart's reasons because he knows they're bullshit anyway.

"Hey, I'm not a great cook, but I promise my pancakes are edible," he jokes half-heartedly.

"You know that's not what I mean. You and me. That's not going anywhere good."

Seems like they're gonna have this conversation anyway, whether Barry wants it or not. 

The last of the early-morning softness dissipates, and he sits up, staring at Snart from across the room, the half-empty bed between them suddenly a vast gulf that feels impossible to cross. Barry sets his jaw, unwilling to back down. "I think you're wrong."

"Of course you do. Because you're always such an optimist. Always believing in the good in people. That things will somehow turn out alright just because we want them to. It's one of your defining traits. And one of your most annoying." The fondness in his voice, even if it's barely an undercurrent hidden underneath the drawl, belies his words, enough that Barry dares to feel hopeful. 

"I'm not gonna stop, you know." 

It doesn't matter how many times Snart pulls his whole 'I'm a criminal and a liar, and I hurt people' schtick. If Barry wasn't willing to write him off after that first time, bruised and beaten on the airfield of the testing facility after Snart betrayed him, there's very little Snart can do now that will make Barry stop taking chances on him. Snart has to be aware of that, especially after last night.

He's glancing at Barry with a look in his eyes that's hard to read, his hand still on the door handle. "Maybe I'm counting on that." 

It could mean anything. For all Barry knows, Snart is implying that he's counting on Barry being too soft and gullible, so Snart has the advantage when he pulls a job and they go against one another. Or maybe, just maybe, it means that he wants Barry to prove him wrong.

Before Barry has chance to think of a good response, Snart is talking again. "Goodbye, Barry. Thanks for the assistance."

"Always." 

Barry tries to infuse the weight of a promise into the word. Judging by the withering look it earns him, he's pretty sure he succeeded. Snart tips his head in silent acknowledgment, and then he's gone, the bedroom door falling shut behind him with a soft noise.

Barry stares after him for a long moment, quelling the impulse to rush after him. He knows it won't do much good now. If he wants to break through Snart's defenses, he has to wear them down slowly, brick by brick. And he will, even if it takes him longer than he would like, even if he wants Snart back here in bed with him right away and hates that he can't have that. But, contrary to what Snart thinks, even a speedster can be patient. 

He flops back down onto the bed and makes a game-plan.

End.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are love (like hot cocoa with mini-marshmallows, but with zero calories)! ♥
> 
> You can [find me on Tumblr](http://sproutwings.tumblr.com) (though not as much as I would like to, because I'm on limited internet until fall and Tumblr is eating up all my bandwidth), drowning in Coldflash feels, one GIF set at a time.


End file.
